Unholy Walls
by MelissaCanFlyy
Summary: A strange encounter with an infamous, painted inmate ensues after a failed portal jump attempt leads Jefferson to end up in Gotham and ultimately, Arkham Asylum. Jefferson may think that his interaction with the Clown Prince of Crime keeps his sanity at bay, but Joker always knows how to deteriorate principles, to show them how ugly the world is.


**Author Notes**

_**WARNINGS:**_ Possible, but infrequent strong language, violence, angst, scenes of a dark nature.

_**CROSSOVER:**_ The Dark Knight, Once Upon a Time.

_**PAIRING:**_ Joker, Jefferson (Mad Hatter).

_**REFERENCES: **_"Unholy walls" is a lyric from Gabriel Mann's 'My Little Box'.

"I'm in here" is a song by Sia.

_**RATING: **_**M **just in case of (what could be considered) offensive material.

_**NOTES:**_ I have not written fanfiction for such a long time, so I apologise if I'm a little rusty. I recently made a YouTube video with these two characters and I suddenly felt inspired enough to actually start a story. The video does give a lot away about the storyline, admittedly.

This story is written in first person. Jefferson's POV. I'm going to apologise in advance for any grammatical/spelling mistakes. I am writing in UK English, so take that into consideration, also. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, too, as are reviews, favourites, alerts etc. The first chapter is also short, but it's more or less a prologue. It'd be nice to see who's interested in this story that's all.

**Chapter 1: I'm in Here**

The experience of portal jumping is much like the experience of a bad hangover. You wake up in a strange place with no real recollection of how you got there – you may recall flashes of what happened, but can't quite piece it together, like a dream. With portal jumping, however, you know where you're going, but the explanation of how you got there will forever remain a mystery. Magic works in mysterious ways.

Listen to me. It's talk like this that got me into this mess. Talk of magic and portal jumping; talk of a mad man, they said! Alright, I admit, the fact that the "real world" people not being able to completely comprehend the matter of which I talked had completely escaped my mind. People with such narrow mindedness did not have the ability to take in what I told them with the seriousness I intended. My stories weren't a concoction of my madness, but the accusation of that said madness was maddening itself.

They labelled me insane! As if I was some sort of food product, they labelled me and shelved me! I was just one of the many slabs of meat thrown into the mad house, Arkham Asylum. It was unlike any place I had seen or been in before. The stories that accompanied it, tales of insanity and twisted myths, were stories that hardly bear repeating. It's difficult to begin describing Arkham. Nothing particularly tickled any of the senses, much like any asylum really. Everything just seemed black and white, plain, dull. It could easily induce you into a further state of insanity. However, I had the strangest suspicion that it was deliberately provocative – as if it was designed that way for a purpose. I had heard many stories of sick and corrupt doctors working within this very asylum; I wouldn't put it past them to take pleasure in a patient's ever spiralling condition.

I was to reside here; a physical epitome of tedium – a living hell. Hell is being left alone with the repetition of your own thoughts – countless hours pondering nothing but memories. All of those memories lead to Grace. Oh, Grace. I couldn't help but wonder constantly whether or not I'd see her again. Whether she'd forgive me a second time for leaving her was a dispute I didn't dare fathom.

In Arkham, I was being referred to as Patient 2235 – and you probably thought I was exaggerating about the labelling. Some staff even referred to me as The Mad Hatter, but seldom did I hear 'Jefferson' pass through anybodies lips. Would I even remember what my name was when I left here?

"This is your cell, Hatter," a deliberately aggressive orderly sneered. His vice like grip around my upper arm was enough to leave bruises. The orderly holding my other arm wasn't as tight, but I was still able to tell that his intentions were not to comfort me. Sure enough, this was my cell. The metal name plate screwed to the cell door read 'Patient 2235'. "Sleep tight." I was shoved into the dingy sell and forced to the cold, hard ground. I fell with a thud – and a groan on my part.

I had been through a lot during my many ventures, but I'd never felt so violated than I did in this establishment, nor had I been treated in such a debased manner. No place had ever put me on edge as much as it did here. I felt threatened by the very structure itself. Shadows including my own seemed to be creeping over me, leering at me. The slight glimmer of light of the moon shining through the barred windows of the cell cast a tormenting shadow in the corner of my room. It was my own silhouette, but it seemed disfigured almost – obscured by the overcast sky. It was as if the shadow was trying to mock me. The shadow was to represent my mentality. Was I insane? I knew for a fact that I wasn't. My silhouette showed how everybody else saw me; ambiguous, strange, a freak. People don't like what they don't understand; they need to be able to put a label on it, to analyse and speculate it until they do understand. I knew, after being in Arkham long enough, I will ask myself the same question – am I insane? And I'd reply with something else entirely. Soon I'll be whatever they want me to be, driven mad by my own thoughts that scream in my mind yet I'm amidst a painful silence. If I was to scream, would they hear me? They wouldn't care.

I couldn't help wondering if anyone cared that I was in here. Back in Storybrooke, did people lament for my wellbeing as they did Emma and Snow? I knew Grace would. Grace alone was enough. A single tear rolled down my cheek at the thought and I could no longer bear it. I was to suffer the same torment I had when I lost her the first time. This time, however, the torment was to be emphasised by this literal hell.

I sat on the sill of the barred window and glanced outwards to the city of Gotham, adjusting the hideous, orange coloured scrubs that they had adorned me with after stripping me of my own clothes. The material itched and wasn't suitable for keeping me remotely warm, but this was the least of my problems.

There was something about watching Gotham that was somewhat soothing. Up high in the asylum, you couldn't see much of the streets – you could overlook them, but it was difficult to make out exactly what was happening below. High up on the rooftops of Gotham, it was still. It gave the impression that Gotham was tranquil almost, despite knowing that that probably wasn't the case. The faux tranquillity was still pleasurable, because tranquillity was what my disconcerted mind desired. The odd few people I managed to eye walking on the hardly visible streets of Gotham I envied greatly. They had something else I desired; freedom. I needed to be free from subjugation for I had been shackled to it for far too long.


End file.
